So, This is Christmas?
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: Christmas with Sherlock. It should be the worst ever, but really, it's the best. A slice of life for Christmas at Baker Street.


**So, this is Christmas?**

Sherlock nudged the circular sled with his foot, sighing.

"Boring murder. The suspect killed this person ages ago and buried him here. The rain over the summer created a, well, a mudslide, for a lack of a better word, which brought the body closer to the surface. When it snowed, the snow melting resulted in less and less cover for the body and by the time it snowed again, the children brought their sleds here and the sled hit the patch of ground and..." he trailed off. "Boring, to be honest. A stroke of bad luck for the suspect, though."

John rolled his eyes. "Good luck for society, though."

"Oh, it was domestic murder, anyway. He was sleeping with her best friend's sister."

John sighed. "The world would be such a better place if people would keep it in thei-" He broke off abruptly as Sherlock went down. "Sherlock!"

The sled had gone out from under Sherlock's foot, Sherlock went down in a flurry of a black coat, and being at the top of the hill, the sled _and_ Sherlock went sliding down the hill. The sled disconnected from him about halfway down and he rolled to a stop, black covered in white.

"Sherlock?" John hurried down the hill carefully, struggling not to lose his own balance. "Sherlock, are you alright?"

Sherlock sat up immediately, eyes wide and hair mussed, his entire body covered in snow.

"Sherlock?" John crouched down next to him. "Does anything hurt?"

Sherlock shook his head. "What? No... It's _cold_!" he announced, pushing himself to his feet. He stumbled and John hastened to steady him.

"Take it easy. Are you sure you're alright? You rolled for a bit after you lost the sled..."

Sherlock fixed his coat, brushing the collected snow off best he could. "I wasn't trying to hold onto the sled. I wasn't trying to go _sledding_ at all. I... slipped."

John sighed again. "I know that. I'm just saying you rolled a bit. I wanted to know if you hurt anything."

Sherlock shook his head wildly to dislodge the snow. "No. I'm freezing, though."

John shook his head. "Alright. Come on. I'll make a hot chocolate when we get home."

Sherlock rubbed his arms with gloved hands and bounded ahead of John, back up the hill.

* * *

"What the _hell_ are you doing now?"

Sherlock glanced up. "Huh?"

He was just standing there, in the kitchen, in front of the stove, toying with an oven mitt. There didn't seem to to be any hazardous experiments sitting about, Sherlock didn't seem too interested in making a mess or exploding the kitchen. In fact, the more that John stood there, it started to smell like Sherlock was... baking something. Edible. Potentially edible.

John frowned. "What is that smell?"

"Oh." Sherlock looked back at the oven. "Gingerbread cookies."

John's frown deepened. "_Gingerbread_ cookies? Wait, since when do you bake?"

"I don't." He crouched down to peer into the oven. "Not often. I wanted gingerbread. You weren't home and Mrs Hudson won't be back until seven. So, I made them myself."

John raised his eyebrows as Sherlock opened the oven and pulled out the cookie sheet.

"They're just round," he commented, watching Sherlock peel the cookies away from the wax paper.

Sherlock shrugged. "So?"

"They're supposed to be gingerbread men."

"Did I _say_ I was making gingerbread men? I made gingerbread cookies. I couldn't care less what they look like."

Sherlock grabbed a cookie, piping hot and fresh off the cookie sheet, and took a bite. He made a face and quickly swallowed it.

John laughed. "Idiot," he commented affectionately, turning away.

Sherlock huffed quietly and waited a few minutes before taking another bite.

* * *

Sherlock sneezed.

John frowned, mostly because he'd only ever heard Sherlock sneeze once in awhile. It was like he was invincible against dust or itchy noses or something.

Sherlock sneezed again.

"Bless you," John said, raising an eyebrow.

Sherlock held up a hand and then sneezed, for a third time, into the crook of his arm. He let out a deep breath and stuck his face back in the newspaper.

It took a total of three hours for John to realise something was wrong.

Sherlock had sneezed countless times throughout the past three hours and, while he was trying to keep his distance from John, his eyes were red and watery.

John sidled up behind Sherlock slyly and, when Sherlock was busy reading case notes, pressed his hand against Sherlock's forehead.

Sherlock flinched forward. "What are you doing?" His voice sounded a bit thick.

"Are you getting sick? You look like crap. Sound like it, too," John said.

Sherlock stood up, turning away. "No."

"Then what's wrong?"

Sherlock muttered something and turned away. He sneezed, again. John caught the thoroughly miserable look that flashed across his face as he resurfaced from being buried in his arm.

"What's wrong?" John repeated, grabbing Sherlock's shoulder. "Tell me."

Sherlock tried to shrug his hand again but John held firm.

"Sherlock."

"It's just allergies, John. Leave me alone."

"Allergies to what? It's _winter_. We don't even have anything..." he trailed off, an idea lighting up his mind. "Sherlock, are you allergic to pine?"

As of yesterday, John had acquired a rather nice live wreath to hang on the door. They didn't have the room for a Christmas tree, so he had made do with the wreath.

Sherlock sniffed heartily and turned away, mumbling under his breath again.

John took that as an affirmative and followed Sherlock to the sitting room. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock sniffed again. "It's not important."

"If you're allergic, it is. You look miserable."

"Look, it's fine. It's... one of your Christmasy things. I can handle it."

John stared at Sherlock briefly. Was that, well, was that something like Sherlock saying he'd deal with his allergies so that John could have his Christmas? Was that... selflessness, coming from Sherlock Holmes?

John blinked and went to get himself a cup of tea.

Sherlock went out for a case that afternoon and, by the time he returned, the wreath was missing from its place on their sitting room door.

Mrs Hudson had said that she would _love_ to have the wreath if John was just going to throw it away. It would look wonderful above her mantelpiece.

* * *

Sherlock stopped in the kitchen doorway.

Something was off. He didn't know what, but something was off. John wasn't awake, but there were signs that he had already been up. Nightmares? No. John always had a cup of chamomile to soothe himself after nightmares. The kettle wasn't boiled. He can't have been up long, lest Sherlock would have heard him and woken up as well. It was far too early for Mrs Hudson to be awake, let alone in their flat.

Sherlock took in a breath shortly. Nothing smelled out of the ordinary. No food, no drink, no flat burning down. Nothing looked particularly out of the ordinary, but it was something... something _felt_ out of the ordinary. He didn't know what.

Sherlock hauled the trails of his sheet off the floor, traipsing with bare feet into the kitchen. He arched his back in a stretch, sighing quietly. He rinsed the kettle, added the water, turned it on. Turned for the cabinet to pull out the canister of tea...

That's when he noticed it.

Sitting on the cabinet, directly beneath the cupboard where they kept their tea, was a brand new, gleaming teapot.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, hand still outstretched to reach for the tea.

From a quick analysation, he could tell it was brand new. It was sparkling, practically, the glaze over the ceramic shining in the dull light cast into the room. It was black, pure black, and definitely a Betty Brown.

Sherlock lowered his arm, crouching down to eye level with the counter. He could practically see his reflection in the glazed exterior. He reached forward, almost hesitantly, and brushed two fingers against the cool ceramic. A shiver shot up his spine- bare feet on linoleum, fingers on ceramic, a genuine Betty Brown in _their_ kitchen.

He stood up, fixing his sheet. How did it get here? It couldn't have been a mistake. Normally, it might have been. Maybe Mrs Hudson had accidentally put it there when she had picked up stuff around the kitchen. But not now. Sherlock had gone to bed last, around midnight, and he was the first one up in the flat. No time for Mrs Hudson. John? But John had gone to bed before him, too. Although there were signs that he had been up already... So, John had put the teapot there over night? Without letting Sherlock know? Why? Oh, _it_ was Christmas, or... was it? It was some time around the date, Sherlock knew, but he had never celebrated since moving away from his parents. He didn't keep track of things like holidays. The teapot had to be a Christmas present from John, then. Logical. But... Stupid. Sherlock didn't do Christmas. He hadn't cared about it all month; why would John get him a present? To be fair, however, a teapot was rather for the both of them...

Sherlock swiped his thumb over the smoothness of the teapot, letting out a deep breath he hadn't been aware of holding. The kettle was at a rolling boil and he looked away from the darkness of the teapot. He had been making tea. Right.

He completed his earlier task of retrieving the canister of tea, a small smile playing his lips.

If this was Christmas, maybe it wasn't so bad, after all.

* * *

_Good tidings we bring for you and your men,_  
_good tidings for Christmas and a Happy New Year._

The words were unspoken, of course, but the music played deep and rich through their flat. John smiled as he climbed the stairs.

"In a festive mood, are we?" he asked, depositing the shopping on the floor next to the door and stepping out of his shoes.

Sherlock didn't break note. He waited to speak until he had bowed out the last, quivering note. "Not particularly."

John gave a little _huh_ and held up the bag. "I picked up your ruddy shopping. And never asked me to do it again. Not until I have a steady girlfriend," he muttered.

Sherlock gave him a side glance. "It's just tampons. They're for an experiment."

John scowled. "I don't _care_ where you plan to stick them; I just don't want to buy them. You can buy them yourself next time."

"Honestly, John. You're a doctor. Natural part of the female life span."

"I am not a woman!" John said, throwing the bag next to Sherlock's feet.

Sherlock's eyes once again returned to John. They swept up and down John's form in that deducing gaze before his eyebrows snapped up. "_Really_?" he asked sarcastically.

John scoffed and rolled his eyes. He wasn't mad, not really. He was in too good of a mood to be put out by Sherlock's attitude. It was Christmas, after all. It was impossible _not_ to be in a good mood.

"But don't worry," Sherlock said, raising his bow again. "I'll think of it as a Christmas gift."

John raised his eyebrows now. "Tampons. For a Christmas gift."

Sherlock shrugged. "Merry Christmas, John."

John laughed and sank onto the sofa.

Sherlock placed his bow against the strings of his violin again. The tune of _We Wish You a Merry Christmas_ filled the flat as John watched Sherlock play.

Consulting detectives, tampons, and teapots. It was the most unique, and memorable, Christmas that he'd ever had, John thought.

It couldn't be any better than this.

* * *

**Merry Christmas, all. Each and every one of you are special and I hope that you all receive fondest wishes for Christmas... and hopefully not tampons, because that's pretty much a Sherlock-experiment-specific thing. :p**

**I do not own _Sherlock_ or any of the songs mentioned or referenced.**

**Sherlock Lives.**


End file.
